A  SON  OF 
THE  GODS 

AND 

A  HORSEMAN 
IN  THE  SKY 


BIERCE 


George  Washington  Flowers 
Memorial  Collection 

DUKE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 


ESTABLISHED  BY  THE 

FAMILY  OF 

COLONEL   FLOWERS 


WESTERN  CLASSICS 
N2  FOUR 


A  SON  OF  THE  GODS 

AND 

A  HORSEMAN  IN  THE  SKY 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2011  with  funding  from 
Duke  University  Libraries 


http://www.archive.org/details/sonofgodsandhorsOObier 


%*f^--yJ»6st&0-Jsfy-Zp**U  $&&iz**^t  %*mfn 


A  SON  OF  THE  GODS 

AND 

A  HORSEMAN  IN  THE  SKY 

BY 

AMBROSE  BIERCE 

INCLUDING  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 
W.  C.  MORROW 

THE  PHOTOGRAVURE 

FRONTISPIECE  AFTER  A  PAINTING  BY 

WILL  JENKINS 


PAUL  ELDER  AND  COMPANY 

SAN  FRANCISCO  AND  NEW  YORK 


Copyright,  1907 
by  Paul  Elder  and  Company 


u  &  <s  $n 


Brilliant  and  magnetic  as  are  these  two 
studies  by  Ambrose  Bierce,  and  especially 
significant  as  coming  from  one  who  was  a  boy- 
soldier  in  the  Civil  War,  they  merely  reflect 
one  side  of  his  original  and  many -faceted 
genius.  Poet,  critic,  satirist,  fun-maker,  in- 
comparable writer  of  fables  and  masterly 
prose  sketches,  a  seer  of  startling  insight,  a 
reasoner  mercilessly  logical,  with  the  delicate 
wit  and  keenness  of  an  Irving  or  an  Addi- 
son, the  dramatic  quality  of  a  Hugo, — all 
of  these,  and  still  in  the  prime  of  his  powers; 
yet  so  restricted  has  been  his  output  and  so 
little  exploited  that  only  the  judicious  few 
have  been  impressed. 

Although  an  American,  he  formed  his  bent 
years  ago  in  London,  where  he  was  associated 
with  the  younger  Hood  on  Fun.  There  he 
laid  the  foundation  for  that  reputation  which 

iii 


he  today  enjoys:  the  distinction  of  being  the 
last  of  the  scholarly  satirists.  With  that 
training  he  came  to  San  Francisco,  where, 
in  an  environment  equally  as  genial,  his 
talent  grew  and  mellowed  through  the  years. 
Then  he  was  summoned  to  New  York  to  as- 
sist a  newspaper  fight  against  a  great  rail- 
road, since  the  conclusion  of  which  brilliant 
campaign  eastern  journalism  and  magazine 
work  have  claimed  his  attention. 

Two  volumes,  c'The  Fiend's  Delight9' 
and  * '  Cobwebs  from  an  Fhnpty  Skull ' ' — 
titles  that  would  damn  modern  books — were 
collections  published  years  ago  from  his  work 
on  London  Fun.  Their  appearance  made 
him  at  once  the  chief  wit  and  humorist  of 
Fngland,  and,  combined  with  his  satirical 
work  on  Fun,  led  to  his  engagement  by  friends 
of  the  exiled  Eugenie  to  conduct  a  periodical 
against  her  enemies,  who  purposed  to  make 
her  refuge  in  Fngland  untenable  by  means 
of  newspaper  attacks.  It  is  easy  to  imagine 
the  zest  with  which   the  chivalrous  Bierce 

iv 


plunged  into  preparations  for  the  fight.  But 
the  struggle  never  came;  it  was  sufficient  to 
learn  that  Bierce  would  be  the  Richmond;  the 
attack  upon  the  stricken  ex- empress  was 
abandoned. 

When  he  was  urged  in  San  Francisco, 
years  afterward,  to  write  more  of  the  inimita- 
ble things  that  filled  those  two  volumes,  he 
said  that  it  was  only  fun,  a  boy's  work. 
Only  fun!  There  has  never  been  such  deli- 
cious fun  since  the  beginning  of  literature,  and 
there  is  nothing  better  than  fun.  Yet  it  held 
his  own  peculiar  quality,  which  is  not  that 
of  American  fun,  —  quality  of  a  brilliant  in- 
tellectuality: the  keenness  of  a  rapier,  a  teas- 
ing subtlety,  a  contempt  for  pharisaism  and 
squeamishness,  and  above  all  a  fine  philoso- 
phy. While  he  has  never  lost  his  sense  of  the 
whimsical,  the  grotesque,  the  unusual,  he — 
unfortunately,  perhaps —  came  oftener  to  give 
it  the  form  of  pure  wit  rather  than  of  cajoling 
humor.  Few  Americans  know  him  as  a  hu- 
morist, because  his  humor  is  not  built  on  the 


broad,  rough  lines  that  are  typically  Ameri- 
can .  It  belongs  to  an  older  civilization,  yet  it 
is  jollier  than  the  English  and  bolder  than 
the  French . 

At  all  times  his  incomparable  wit  and  satire 
has  appealed  rather  to  the  cultured,  and  even 
the  emotional  quality  of  his  fiction  is  frequent- 
ly so  profound  and  unusual  as  to  be  fully  en- 
joyed only  by  the  intellectually  untrammelled. 
His  writing  was  never  for  those  who  could 
only  read  and  feel,  not  think. 

Another  factor  against  his  wider  accept- 
ance has  been  the  infrequency  and  fragmen- 
tary character  of  his  work,  particularly  his 
satire.  No  sustained  effort  in  that  field  has 
come  from  him.  His  satire  was  born  largely 
of  a  transient  stimulus,  and  was  evanescent. 
Even  his  short  stories  are,  generally,  but 
blinding  flashes  of  a  moment  in  a  life.  He 
laughingly  ascribes  the  meagerness  of  his 
output  to  indolence  ;  but  there  may  be  a  deeper 
reason,  of  which  he  is  unconscious.  What  is 
more  dampening  than  a  seeming  lack  of 

vi 


appreciation  ?  ' '  Tales  of  Soldiers  and  Civ- 
ilians" had  a  disheartening  search  for  an 
established  publisher j  and  finally  was  brought 
out  by  an  admiring  merchant  of  San  Fran- 
cisco. It  attracted  so  much  critical  attention 
that  its  re-publication  was  soon  undertaken 
by  a  regular  house. 

Had  Bierce  never  produced  anything  but 
these  prose  tales,  his  right  to  a  place  high  in 
American  letters  would  nevertheless  be  secure, 
and  of  all  his  work,  serious  or  otherwise,  here 
is  his  greatest  claim  to  popular  and  permanent 
recognition.  No  stories  for  which  the  Civil 
War  has  furnished  such  dramatic  setting  sur- 
pass these  masterpieces  of  short  fiction,  either 
in  power  of  description,  subtlety  of  touch  or 
literary  finish .  It  is  deeply  to  be  regretted 
that  he  has  not  given  us  more  such  prose. 

W.  C.  MORROW. 


vil 


A  SON  OF  THE  GODS 


A  breezy  day  and  a  sunny  land- 
scape. An  open  country  to  right 
and  left  and  forward;  behind,  a 
wood.  In  the  edge  of  this  wood, 
facing  the  open  but  not  venturing 
into  it,  long  lines  of  troops  halted. 
The  wood  is  alive  with  them,  and 
full  of  confused  noises:  the  occa- 
sional rattle  of  wheels  as  a  battery 
of  artillery  goes  into  position  to  cover 
the  advance;  the  hum  and  murmur 
of  the  soldiers  talking;  a  sound  of 
innumerable  feet  in  the  dry  leaves 
that  strew  the  interspaces  among  the 
trees;  hoarse  commands  of  officers. 
Detached  groups  of  horsemen  are 
well   in  front — not   altogether   ex- 

3 


posed — many  of  them  intently  re- 
garding the  crest  of  a  hill  a  mile  away 
in  the  direction  of  the  interrupted 
advance.  For  this  powerful  army, 
moving  in  battle  order  through  a  for- 
est, has  met  with  a  formidable  ob- 
stacle — the  open  country.  The  crest 
of  that  gentle  hill  a  mile  away  has  a 
sinister  look;  it  says,  Beware!  Along 
it  runs  a  stone  wall  extending  to  left 
and  right  a  great  distance.  Behind 
the  wall  is  a  hedge;  behind  the  hedge 
are  seen  the  tops  of  trees  in  rather 
straggling  order.  Among  the  trees  — 
what  ?  It  is  necessary  to  know. 

Yesterday,  and  for  many  days  and 
nights  previously,  we  were  fighting 
somewhere;  always  there  was  can- 
nonading, with  occasional  keen  rat- 
tlings   of  musketry,   mingled   with 

4 


cheers,  our  own  or  the  enemy's,  we 
seldom  knew,  attesting  some  tempo- 
rary advantage.  This  morning  at 
daybreak  the  enemy  was  gone.  We 
have  moved  forward  across  his  earth- 
works, across  which  we  have  so  often 
vainly  attempted  to  move  before, 
through  the  debris  of  his  abandoned 
camps,  among  the  graves  of  his 
fallen,  into  the  woods  beyond. 

How  curiously  we  regarded  every- 
thing! How  odd  it  all  seemed! 
Nothing  appeared  quite  familiar;  the 
most  commonplace  objects — an  old 
saddle,  a  splintered  wheel,  a  forgotten 
canteen — everything  related  some- 
thing of  the  mysterious  personality 
of  those  strange  men  who  had  been 
killing  us.  The  soldier  never  becomes 
wholly  familiar  with  the  conception 

5 


of  his  foes  as  men  like  himself;  he 
cannot  divest  himself  of  the  feeling 
that  they  are  another  order  of  beings, 
differently  conditioned,  in  an  envi- 
ronment not  altogether  of  the  earth. 
The  smallest  vestiges  of  them  rivet 
his  attention  and  engage  his  interest. 
He  thinks  of  them  as  inaccessible; 
and,  catching  an  unexpected  glimpse 
of  them,  they  appear  farther  away, 
and  therefore  larger,  than  they  really 
are — like  objects  in  a  fog.  He  is 
somewhat  in  awe  of  them. 

From  the  edge  of  the  wood  lead- 
ing up  the  acclivity  are  the  tracks  of 
horses  and  wheels — the  wheels  of 
cannon.  The  yellow  grass  is  beaten 
down  by  the  feet  of  infantry.  Clearly 
they  have  passed  this  way  in  thou- 
sands; they  have  not  withdrawn  by 

6 


the  country  roads.  This  is  signifi- 
cant— it  is  the  difference  between  re- 
tiring and  retreating. 

That  group  of  horsemen  is  our 
commander,  his  staff,  and  escort.  He 
is  facing  the  distant  crest,  holding 
his  field-glass  against  his  eyes  with 
both  hands,  his  elbows  needlessly  ele- 
vated. It  is  a  fashion;  it  seems  to 
dignify  the  act;  we  are  all  addicted  to 
it.  Suddenly  he  lowers  the  glass  and 
says  a  few  words  to  those  about  him. 
Two  or  three  aides  detach  themselves 
from  the  group  and  canter  away  into 
the  woods,  along  the  lines  in  each  di- 
rection. We  did  not  hear  his  words, 
but  we  knew  them:  "Tell  General 
X.  to  send  forward  the  skirmish 
line.'5  Those  of  us  who  have  been 
out  of  place  resume  our  positions; 

7 


the  men  resting  at  ease  straighten 
themselves,  and  the  ranks  are  re- 
formed without  a  command.  Some 
of  us  staff  officers  dismount  and  look 
at  our  saddle-girths;  those  already  on 
the  ground  remount. 

Galloping  rapidly  along  in  the  edge 
of  the  open  ground  comes  a  young 
officer  on  a  snow-white  horse.  His 
saddle-blanket  is  scarlet.  What  a 
fool!  No  one  who  has  ever  been  in 
battle  but  remembers  how  naturally 
every  rifle  turns  toward  the  man 
on  a  white  horse;  no  one  but  has 
observed  how  a  bit  of  red  enrages 
the  bull  of  battle.  That  such  colors 
are  fashionable  in  military  life  must 
be  accepted  as  the  most  astonish- 
ing of  all  the  phenomena  of  human 
vanity.    They  would  seem  to  have 

8 


been  devised  to  increase  the  death- 
rate. 

This  young  officer  is  in  full  uni- 
form, as  if  on  parade.  He  is  all 
agleam  with  bullion,  a  blue-and-gold 
edition  of  the  Poetry  of  War.  A 
wave  of  derisive  laughter  runs  abreast 
of  him  all  along  the  line.  But  how 
handsome  he  is!  With  what  careless 
grace  he  sits  his  horse! 

He  reins  up  within  a  respectful 
distance  of  the  corps  commander  and 
salutes.  The  old  soldier  nods  famil- 
iarly; he  evidently  knows  him.  A 
brief  colloquy  between  them  is  going 
on;  the  young  man  seems  to  be  pre- 
ferring some  request  which  the  elder 
one  is  indisposed  to  grant.  Let  us 
ride  a  little  nearer.  Ah!  too  late — 
it  is  ended.  The  young  officer  salutes 

9 


again,  wheels  his  horse,  and  rides 
straight  toward  the  crest  of  the  hill. 
He  is  deadly  pale. 

A  thin  line  of  skirmishers,  the 
men  deployed  at  six  paces  or  so 
apart,  now  pushes  from  the  wood 
into  the  open.  The  commander 
speaks  to  his  bugler,  who  claps  his 
instrument  to  his  lips.  Tra-la-la! 
Tra-la-laf  The  skirmishers  halt  in 
their  tracks. 

Meantime  the  young  horseman  has 
advanced  a  hundred  yards.  He  is 
riding  at  a  walk,  straight  up  the  long 
slope,  with  never  a  turn  of  the  head. 
How  glorious!  Gods!  what  would  we 
not  give  to  be  in  his  place — with  his 
soul!  He  does  not  draw  his  sabre;  his 
right  hand  hangs  easily  at  his  side. 
The  breeze  catches  the  plume  in  his 
10 


hat  and  flutters  it  smartly.  The  sun- 
shine rests  upon  his  shoulder-straps, 
lovingly,  like  a  visible  benediction. 
Straight  on  he  rides.  Ten  thousand 
pairs  of  eyes  are  fixed  upon  him  with 
an  intensity  that  he  can  hardly  fail 
to  feel;  ten  thousand  hearts  keep 
quick  time  to  the  inaudible  hoof- 
beats  of  his  snowy  steed.  He  is  not 
alone — he  draws  all  souls  after  him; 
we  are  but  "dead  men  all.  But  we 
remember  that  we  laughed!  On  and 
on,  straight  for  the  hedge-lined  wall, 
he  rides.  Not  a  look  backward.  Oh, 
if  he  would  but  turn — if  he  could 
but  see  the  love,  the  adoration,  the 
atonement! 

Not  a  word  is  spoken;  the  popu- 
lous depths  of  the  forest  still  mur- 
mur with  their  unseen  and  unseeing 

11 


swarm,  but  all  along  the  fringe  there 
is  silence  absolute.  The  burly  com- 
mander is  an  equestrian  statue  of 
himself.  The  mounted  staff  officers, 
their  field-glasses  up,  are  motionless 
all.  The  line  of  battle  in  the  edge 
of  the  wood  stands  at  a  new  kind  of 
attention, ' '  each  man  in  the  atti- 
tude in  which  he  was  caught  by  the 
consciousness  of  what  is  going  on. 
All  these  hardened  and  impenitent 
man-killers,  to  whom  death  in  its 
awfulest  forms  is  a  fact  familiar  to 
their  every-day  observation;  who 
sleep  on  hills  trembling  with  the 
thunder  of  great  guns,  dine  in  the 
midst  of  streaming  missiles,  and  play 
at  cards  among  the  dead  faces  of 
their  dearest  friends, — all  are  watch- 
ing with  suspended  breath  and  beat- 

12 


ing  hearts  the  outcome  of  an  act 
involving  the  life  of  one  man.  Such 
is  the  magnetism  of  courage  and  de- 
votion. 

If  now  you  should  turn  your  head 
you  would  see  a  simultaneous  move- 
ment among  the  spectators — a  start, 
as  if  they  had  received  an  electric 
shock — and  looking  forward  again  to 
the  now  distant  horseman  you  would 
see  that  he  has  in  that  instant  altered 
his  direction  and  is  riding  at  an  angle 
to  his  former  course.  The  spectators 
suppose  the  sudden  deflection  to  be 
caused  by  a  shot,  perhaps  a  wound; 
but  take  this  field-glass  and  you  will 
observe  that  he  is  riding  toward  a 
break  in  the  wall  and  hedge.  He 
means,  if  not  killed,  to  ride  through 
and  overlook  the  country  beyond. 

13 


You  are  not  to  forget  the  nature 
of  this  man's  act;  it  is  not  permitted 
to  you  to  think  of  it  as  an  instance 
of  bravado,  nor,  on  the  other  hand, 
a  needless  sacrifice  of  self.  If  the 
enemy  has  not  retreated,  he  is  in 
force  on  that  ridge.  The  investiga- 
tor will  encounter  nothing  less  than 
a  line  of  battle;  there  is  no  need  of 
pickets,  videttes,  skirmishers,  to  give 
warning  of  our  approach;  our  at- 
tacking lines  will  be  visible,  con- 
spicuous, exposed  to  an  artillery  fire 
that  will  shave  the  ground  the  mo- 
ment they  break  from  cover,  and  for 
half  the  distance  to  a  sheet  of  rifle 
bullets  in  which  nothing  can  live. 
In  short,  if  the  enemy  is  there,  it 
would  be  madness  to  attack  him  in 
front;  he  must  be  maneuvered  out 

14 


by  the  immemorial  plan  of  threaten- 
ing his  line  of  communication,  as 
necessary  to  his  existence  as  to  the 
diver  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea  his 
air-tube.  But  how  ascertain  if  the 
enemy  is  there?  There  is  but  one 
way:  somebody  must  go  and  see. 
The  natural  and  customary  thing  to 
do  is  to  send  forward  a  line  of  skir- 
mishers. But  in  this  case  they  will 
answer  in  the  affirmative  with  all 
their  lives;  the  enemy,  crouching  in 
double  ranks  behind  the  stone  wall 
and  in  cover  of  the  hedge,  will  wait 
until  it  is  possible  to  count  each  as- 
sailant's teeth.  At  the  first  volley  a 
half  of  the  questioning  line  will  fall, 
the  other  half  before  it  can  accom- 
plish the  predestined  retreat.  What 
a   price   to   pay  for  gratified   curi- 

15 


osity!  At  what  a  dear  rate  an  army 
must  sometimes  purchase  knowl- 
edge! "Let  me  pay  all,"  says  this 
gallant  man — this  military  Christ! 

There  is  no  hope  except  the  hope 
against  hope  that  the  crest  is  clear. 
True,  he  might  prefer  capture  to 
death.  So  long  as  he  advances,  the 
line  will  not  fire, — why  should  it? 
He  can  safely  ride  into  the  hostile 
ranks  and  become  a  prisoner  of  war. 
But  this  would  defeat  his  object. 
It  would  not  answer  our  question;  it 
is  necessary  either  that  he  return  un- 
harmed or  be  shot  to  death  before 
our  eyes.  Only  so  shall  we  know 
how  to  act.  If  captured — why,  that 
might  have  been  done  by  a  half- 
dozen  stragglers. 

Now  begins  an  extraordinary  con- 

16 


test  of  intellect  between  a  man  and 
an  army.  Our  horseman,  now  within 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  the  crest,  sud- 
denly wheels  to  the  left  and  gallops 
in  a  direction  parallel  to  it.  He  has 
caught  sight  of  his  antagonist;  he 
knows  all.  Some  slight  advantage  of 
ground  has  enabled  him  to  overlook 
a  part  of  the  line.  If  he  were  here, 
he  could  tell  us  in  words.  But  that 
is  now  hopeless;  he  must  make  the 
best  use  of  the  few  minutes  of  life 
remaining  to  him,  by  compelling  the 
enemy  himself  to  tell  us  as  much  and 
as  plainly  as  possible — which,  natur- 
ally, that  discreet  power  is  reluc- 
tant to  do.  Not  a  rifleman  in  those 
crouching  ranks,  not  a  cannoneer  at 
those  masked  and  shotted  guns,  but 
knows  the  needs  of  the  situation, 

17 


A  SON  OF  THE  GODS 


mm 


the  imperative  duty  of  forbearance. 
Besides,  there  has  been  time  enough 
to  forbid  them  all  to  fire.  True,  a  sin- 
gle rifle-shot  might  drop  him  and  be 
no  great  disclosure.  But  firing  is  in- 
fectious— and  see  how  rapidly  he 
moves,  with  never  a  pause  except  as 
he  whirls  his  horse  about  to  take  a 
new  direction,  never  directly  back- 
ward toward  us,  never  directly  for- 
ward toward  his  executioners.  All 
this  is  visible  through  the  glass;  it 
seems  occurring  within  pistol-shot; 
we  see  all  but  the  enemy,  whose  pres- 
ence, whose  thoughts,  whose  motives 
we  infer.  To  the  unaided  eye  there  is 
nothing  but  a  black  figure  on  a  white 
horse,  tracing  slow  zigzags  against 
the  slope  of  a  distant  hill — so  slowly 
they  seem  almost  to  creep. 

18 


Now — the  glass  again — he  has 
tired  of  his  failure,  or  sees  his  error,  or 
has  gone  mad;  he  is  dashing  directly 
forward  at  the  wall,  as  if  to  take  it 
at  a  leap,  hedge  and  all!  One  moment 
only  and  he  wheels  right  about  and 
is  speeding  like  the  wind  straight 
down  the  slope — toward  his  friends, 
toward  his  death!  Instantly  the  wall 
is  topped  with  a  fierce  roll  of  smoke 
for  a  distance  of  hundreds  of  yards 
to  right  and  left.  This  is  as  instantly 
dissipated  by  the  wind,  and  before 
the  rattle  of  the  rifles  reaches  us,  he 
is  down.  No,  he  recovers  his  seat; 
he  has  but  pulled  his  horse  upon  its 
haunches.  They  are  up  and  away! 
A  tremendous  cheer  bursts  from  our 
ranks,  relieving  the  insupportable 
tension    of  our  feelings.    And   the 

19 


horse  and  its  rider?  Yes,  they  are 
up  and  away.  Away,  indeed — they 
are  making  directly  to  our  left,  par- 
allel to  the  now  steadily  blazing  and 
smoking  wall.  The  rattle  of  the  mus- 
ketry is  continuous,  and  every  bul- 
let's target  is  that  courageous  heart. 

Suddenly  a  great  bank  of  white 
smoke  pushes  upward  from  behind 
the  wall.  Another  and  another — a 
dozen  roll  up  before  the  thunder  of 
the  explosions  and  the  humming  of 
the  missiles  reach  our  ears,  and  the 
missiles  themselves  come  bounding 
through  clouds  of  dust  into  our 
covert,  knocking  over  here  and  there 
a  man  and  causing  a  temporary  dis- 
traction, a  passing  thought  of  self. 

The  dust  drifts  away.  Incredi- 
ble!— that  enchanted  horse  and  rider 
20 


have  passed  a  ravine  and  are  climbing 
another  slope  to  unveil  another  con- 
spiracy of  silence,  to  thwart  the  will 
of  another  armed  host.  Another  mo- 
ment and  that  crest  too  is  in  erup- 
tion. The  horse  rears  and  strikes  the 
air  with  its  forefeet.  They  are  down 
at  last.  But  look  again — the  man 
has  detached  himself  from  the  dead 
animal.  He  stands  erect,  motionless, 
holding  his  sabre  in  his  right  hand 
straight  above  his  head.  His  face  is 
toward  us.  Now  he  lowers  his  hand  to 
a  level  with  his  face  and  moves  it  out- 
ward, the  blade  of  the  sabre  describ- 
ing a  downward  curve.  It  is  a  sign  to 
us,  to  the  world,  to  posterity.  It  is  a 
hero's  salute  to  death  and  history. 

Again  the  spell  is  broken;  our  men 
attempt  to  cheer;  they  are  choking 

21 


with  emotion;  they  utter  hoarse, 
discordant  cries;  they  clutch  their 
weapons  and  press  tumultuously  for- 
ward into  the  open.  The  skirmishers, 
without  orders,  against  orders,  are 
going  forward  at  a  keen  run,  like 
hounds  unleashed.  Our  cannon  speak 
and  the  enemy's  now  open  in  full 
chorus;  to  right  and  left  as  far  as 
we  can  see,  the  distant  crest,  seem- 
ing now  so  near,  erects  its  towers 
of  cloud,  and  the  great  shot  pitch 
roaring  down  among  our  moving 
masses.  Flag  after  flag  of  ours 
emerges  from  the  wood,  line  after 
line  sweeps  forth,  catching  the  sun- 
light on  its  burnished  arms.  The 
rear  battalions  alone  are  in  obedi- 
ence; they  preserve  their  proper  dis- 
tance from  the  insurgent  front. 
22 


The  commander  has  not  moved. 
He  now  removes  his  field-glass  from 
his  eyes  and  glances  to  the  right  and 
left.  He  sees  the  human  current 
flowing  on  either  side  of  him  and  his 
huddled  escort,  like  tide  waves  parted 
by  a  rock.  Not  a  sign  of  feeling  in 
his  face;  he  is  thinking.  Again  he 
directs  his  eyes  forward;  they  slowly 
traverse  that  malign  and  awful  crest. 
He  addresses  a  calm  word  to  his 
bugler.  Tra-la-la!  Tra-la-la!  The 
injunction  has  an  imperiousness 
which  enforces  it.  It  is  repeated  by 
all  the  bugles  of  all  the  subordinate 
commanders;  the  sharp  metallic 
notes  assert  themselves  above  the 
hum  of  the  advance,  and  penetrate 
the  sound  of  the  cannon.  To  halt 
is  to  withdraw.    The   colors   move 

23 


slowly  back,  the  lines  face  about 
and  sullenly  follow,  bearing  their 
wounded;  the  skirmishers  return, 
gathering  up  the  dead. 

Ah,  those  many,  many  needless 
dead !  That  great  soul  whose  beau- 
tiful body  is  lying  over  yonder,  so 
conspicuous  against  the  sere  hill- 
side— could  it  not  have  been  spared 
the  bitter  consciousness  of  a  vain  de- 
votion? Would  one  exception  have 
marred  too  much  the  pitiless  perfec- 
tion of  the  divine,  eternal  plan  ? 


24 


A  HORSEMAN  IN  THE  SKY 


One  sunny  afternoon  in  the 
autumn  of  the  year  1861,  a  soldier 
lay  in  a  clump  of  laurel  by  the  side 
of  a  road  in  Western  Virginia.  He 
lay  at  full  length,  upon  his  stomach, 
his  feet  resting  upon  the  toes,  his 
head  upon  the  left  forearm.  His  ex- 
tended right  hand  loosely  grasped  his 
rifle.  But  for  the  somewhat  meth- 
odical disposition  of  his  limbs  and  a 
slight  rhythmic  movement  of  the 
cartridge-box  at  the  back  of  his  belt, 
he  might  have  been  thought  to  be 
dead.  He  was  asleep  at  his  post  of 
duty.  But  if  detected  he  would  be 
dead  shortly  afterward,  that  being  the 
just  and  legal  penalty  of  his  crime. 

27 


The  clump  of  laurel  in  which  the 
criminal  lay  was  in  the  angle  of  a 
road  which,  after  ascending,  south- 
ward, a  steep  acclivity  to  that  point, 
turned  sharply  to  the  west,  running 
along  the  summit  for  perhaps  one 
hundred  yards.  There  it  turned 
southward  again  and  went  zigzag- 
ging downward  through  the  forest. 
At  the  salient  of  that  second  angle 
was  a  large  flat  rock,  jutting  out 
northward,  overlooking  the  deep  val- 
ley from  which  the  road  ascended. 
The  rock  capped  a  high  cliff;  a  stone 
dropped  from  its  outer  edge  would 
have  fallen  sheer  downward  one 
thousand  feet  to  the  tops  of  the 
pines.  The  angle  where  the  soldier 
lay  was  on  another  spur  of  the  same 
cliff.    Had  he  been  awake,  he  would 

28 


have  commanded  a  view,  not  only 
of  the  short  arm  of  the  road  and  the 
jutting  rock,  but  of  the  entire  profile 
of  the  cliff  below  it.  It  might  well 
have  made  him  giddy  to  look. 

The  country  was  wooded  every- 
where except  at  the  bottom  of  the 
valley  to  the  northward,  where  there 
was  a  small  natural  meadow,  through 
which  flowed  a  stream  scarcely  visi- 
ble from  the  valley's  rim.  This  open 
ground  looked  hardly  larger  than  an 
ordinary  dooryard,  but  was  really 
several  acres  in  extent.  Its  green  was 
more  vivid  than  that  of  the  inclosing 
forest.  Away  beyond  it  rose  a  line 
of  giant  cliffs  similar  to  those  upon 
which  we  are  supposed  to  stand  in 
our  survey  of  the  savage  scene,  and 
through  which  the  road  had  some- 

29 


how  made  its  climb  to  the  summit. 
The  configuration  of  the  valley,  in- 
deed, was  such  that  from  this  point 
of  observation  it  seemed  entirely 
shut  in,  and  one  could  not  but  have 
wondered  how  the  road  which  found 
a  way  out  of  it  had  found  a  way  into 
it,  and  whence  came  and  whither 
went  the  waters  of  the  stream  that 
parted  the  meadow  two  thousand 
feet  below. 

No  country  is  so  wild  and  difficult 
but  men  will  make  it  a  theater  of 
war;  concealed  in  the  forest  at  the 
bottom  of  that  military  rat-trap,  in 
which  half  a  hundred  men  in  pos- 
session of  the  exits  might  have 
starved  an  army  to  submission,  lay 
five  regiments  of  Federal  infantry. 
They  had  marched  all  the  previous 

30 


day  and  night,  and  were  resting.  At 
nightfall  they  would  take  to  the  road 
again,  climb  to  the  place  where  their 
unfaithful  sentinel  now  slept,  and, 
descending  the  other  slope  of  the 
ridge,  fall  upon  a  camp  of  the  enemy 
at  about  midnight.  Their  hope  was 
to  surprise  it,  for  the  road  led  to  the 
rear  of  it.  In  case  of  failure,  their 
position  would  be  perilous  in  the  ex- 
treme; and  fail  they  surely  would, 
should  accident  or  vigilance  apprise 
the  enemy  of  the  movement. 

The  sleeping  sentinel  in  the  clump 
of  laurel  was  a  young  Virginian 
named  Carter  Druse.  He  was  the 
son  of  wealthy  parents,  an  only  child, 
and  had  known  such  ease  and  culti- 
vation and  high  living  as  wealth  and 
taste  were  able  to  command  in  the 

31 


mountain  country  of  Western  Vir- 
ginia. His  home  was  but  a  few  miles 
from  where  he  now  lay.  One  morn- 
ing he  had  risen  from  the  breakfast- 
table  and  said,  quietly  but  gravely: 
"Father,  a  Union  regiment  has  ar- 
rived at  Grafton.    I  am  going  to  join 

•  •     9  9 
it. 

The  father  lifted  his  leonine  head, 
looked  at  the  son  a  moment  in  si- 
lence, and  replied:  'Well,  go,  sir, 
and,  whatever  may  occur,  do  what 
you  conceive  to  be  your  duty.  Vir- 
ginia, to  which  you  are  a  traitor, 
must  get  on  without  you.  Should 
we  both  live  to  the  end  of  the  war, 
we  will  speak  further  of  the  matter. 
Your  mother,  as  the  physician  has 
informed  you,  is  in  a  most  critical 
condition;  at  the  best,  she  cannot  be 

32 


with  us  longer  than  a  few  weeks,  but 
that  time  is  precious.  It  would  be 
better  not  to  disturb  her." 

So  Carter  Druse,  bowing  rever- 
ently to  his  father,  who  returned  the 
salute  with  a  stately  courtesy  which 
masked  a  breaking  heart,  left  the 
home  of  his  childhood  to  go  soldier- 
ing. By  conscience  and  courage,  by 
deeds  of  devotion  and  daring,  he 
soon  commended  himself  to  his  fel- 
lows and  his  officers;  and  it  was  to 
these  qualities  and  to  some  knowl- 
edge of  the  country  that  he  owed  his 
selection  for  his  present  perilous  duty 
at  the  extreme  outpost.  Neverthe- 
less, fatigue  had  been  stronger  than 
resolution,  and  he  had  fallen  asleep. 
What  good  or  bad  angel  came  in  a 
dream  to  rouse  him  from  his  state 

33 


of  crime,  who  shall  say?  Without  a 
movement,  without  a  sound,  in  the 
profound  silence  and  the  languor  of 
the  late  afternoon,  some  invisible 
messenger  of  fate  touched  with  un- 
sealing finger  the  eyes  of  his  con- 
sciousness —  whispered  into  the  ear  of 
his  spirit  the  mysterious  awakening 
word  which  no  human  lips  ever  have 
spoken,  no  human  memory  ever  has 
recalled.  He  quietly  raised  his  fore- 
head from  his  arm  and  looked  be- 
tween the  masking  stems  of  the 
laurels,  instinctively  closing  his  right 
hand  about  the  stock  of  his  rifle. 

His  first  feeling  was  a  keen  artistic 
delight.  On  a  colossal  pedestal,  the 
cliff, — motionless  at  the  extreme 
edge  of  the  capping  rock  and  sharply 
outlined  against  the  sky, — was  an 

34 


equestrian  statue  of  impressive  dig- 
nity. The  figure  of  the  man  sat  the 
figure  of  the  horse,  straight  and  sol- 
dierly, but  with  the  repose  of  a  Gre- 
cian god  carved  in  the  marble  which 
limits  the  suggestion  of  activity. 
The  gray  costume  harmonized  with 
its  aerial  background;  the  metal  of 
accoutrement  and  caparison  was  soft- 
ened and  subdued  by  the  shadow; 
the  animal's  skin  had  no  points  of 
high  light.  A  carbine,  strikingly 
foreshortened,  lay  across  the  pommel 
of  the  saddle,  kept  in  place  by  the 
right  hand  grasping  it  at  the  ' '  grip ' ' ; 
the  left  hand,  holding  the  bridle  rein, 
was  invisible.  In  silhouette  against 
the  sky,  the  profile  of  the  horse  was 
cut  with  the  sharpness  of  a  cameo;  it 
looked  across  the  heights  of  air  to 

35 


the  confronting  cliffs  beyond.  The 
face  of  the  rider,  turned  slightly 
away,  showed  only  an  outline  of 
temple  and  beard;  he  was  looking 
downward  to  the  bottom  of  the  val- 
ley. Magnified  by  its  lift  against  the 
sky  and  by  the  soldier's  testifying 
sense  of  the  formidableness  of  a  near 
enemy,  the  group  appeared  of  heroic, 
almost  colossal,  size. 

For  an  instant  Druse  had  a  strange, 
half-defined  feeling  that  he  had  slept 
to  the  end  of  the  war  and  was  look- 
ing upon  a  noble  work  of  art  reared 
upon  that  commanding  eminence  to 
commemorate  the  deeds  of  an  heroic 
past  of  which  he  had  been  an  in- 
glorious part.  The  feeling  was  dis- 
pelled by  a  slight  movement  of  the 
group:   the  horse,  without  moving 

36 


its  feet,  had  drawn  its  body  slightly 
backward  from  the  verge;  the  man 
remained  immobile  as  before.  Broad 
awake  and  keenly  alive  to  the  sig- 
nificance of  the  situation,  Druse  now 
brought  the  butt  of  his  rifle  against 
his  cheek  by  cautiously  pushing  the 
barrel  forward  through  the  bushes, 
cocked  the  piece,  and,  glancing 
through  the  sights,  covered  a  vital 
spot  of  the  horseman's  breast.  A 
touch  upon  the  trigger  and  all  would 
have  been  well  with  Carter  Druse. 
At  that  instant  the  horseman  turned 
his  head  and  looked  in  the  direction 
of  his  concealed  foeman — seemed  to 
look  into  his  very  face,  into  his  eyes, 
into  his  brave,  compassionate  heart. 
Is  it,  then,  so  terrible  to  kill  an 
enemy  in  war — an  enemy  who  has 

37 


surprised  a  secret  vital  to  the  safety 
of  one's  self  and  comrades — an 
enemy  more  formidable  for  his  knowl- 
edge than  all  his  army  for  its  num- 
bers? Carter  Druse  grew  pale;  he 
shook  in  every  limb,  turned  faint, 
and  saw  the  statuesque  group  before 
him  as  black  figures,  rising,  falling, 
moving  unsteadily  in  arcs  of  circles 
in  a  fiery  sky.  His  hand  fell  away 
from  his  weapon,  his  head  slowly 
dropped  until  his  face  rested  on  the 
leaves  in  which  he  lay.  This  coura- 
geous gentleman  and  hardy  soldier 
was  near  swooning  from  intensity  of 
emotion. 

It  was  not  for  long;  in  another  mo- 
ment his  face  was  raised  from  earth, 
his  hands  resumed  their  places  on  the 
rifle,  his  forefinger  sought  the  trigger; 

38 


mind,  heart  and  eyes  were  clear,  con- 
science and  reason  sound.  He  could 
not  hope  to  capture  that  enemy;  to 
alarm  him  would  but  send  him  dash- 
ing to  his  camp  with  his  fatal  news. 
The  duty  of  the  soldier  was  plain: 
the  man  must  be  shot  dead  from 
ambush — without  warning,  without 
a  moment's  spiritual  preparation, 
with  never  so  much  as  an  unspoken 
prayer,  he  must  be  sent  to  his  ac- 
count. But  no — there  is  a  hope;  he 
may  have  discovered  nothing;  per- 
haps he  is  but  admiring  the  sublimity 
of  the  landscape.  If  permitted,  he 
may  turn  and  ride  carelessly  away  in 
the  direction  whence  he  came.  Surely 
it  will  be  possible  to  judge  at  the  in- 
stant of  his  withdrawing  whether  he 
knows.   It  may  well  be  that  his  fixity 

39 


of  attention — Druse  turned  his  head 
and  looked  through  the  deeps  of  air 
downward  as  from  the  surface  of  the 
bottom  of  a  translucent  sea.  He  saw 
creeping  across  the  green  meadow  a 
sinuous  line  of  figures  of  men  and 
horses — some  foolish  commander 
was  permitting  the  soldiers  of  his 
escort  to  water  their  beasts  in  the 
open,  in  plain  view  from  a  hundred 
summits ! 

Druse  withdrew  his  eyes  from  the 
valley  and  fixed  them  again  upon 
the  group  of  man  and  horse  in  the 
sky,  and  again  it  was  through  the 
sights  of  his  rifle.  But  this  time  his 
aim  was  at  the  horse.  In  his  memory, 
as  if  they  were  a  divine  mandate, 
rang  the  words  of  his  father  at 
their  parting : '  ■  Whatever  may  occur, 

40 


do  what  you  conceive  to  be  your 
duty. ' '  He  was  calm  now.  His  teeth 
were  firmly  but  not  rigidly  closed; 
his  nerves  were  as  tranquil  as  a  sleep- 
ing babe's  —  not  a  tremor  affected 
any  muscle  of  his  body;  his  breath- 
ing, until  suspended  in  the  act  of 
taking  aim,  was  regular  and  slow. 
Duty  had  conquered;  the  spirit  had 
said  to  the  body:  "Peace,  be  still. 
He  fired. 

An  officer  of  the  Federal  force, 
who,  in  a  spirit  of  adventure  or  in 
quest  of  knowledge,  had  left  the  hid- 
den bivouac  in  the  valley,  and,  with 
aimless  feet,  had  made  his  way  to  the 
lower  edge  of  a  small  open  space 
near  the  foot  of  the  cliff,  was  con- 
sidering what  he  had  to  gain  by 
pushing  his  exploration  further.   At 

41 


a  distance  of  a  quarter-mile  before 
him,  but  apparently  at  a  stone's 
throw,  rose  from  its  fringe  of  pines 
the  gigantic  face  of  rock,  towering 
to  so  great  a  height  above  him  that 
it  made  him  giddy  to  look  up  to 
where  its  edge  cut  a  sharp,  rugged 
line  against  the  sky.  At  some  dis- 
tance away  to  his  right  it  presented 
a  clean,  vertical  profile  against  a  back- 
ground of  blue  sky  to  a  point  half 
the  way  down,  and  of  distant  hills 
hardly  less  blue,  thence  to  the  tops 
of  the  trees  at  its  base.  Lifting  his 
eyes  to  the  dizzy  altitude  of  its  sum- 
mit, the  officer  saw  an  astonishing 
sight — a  man  on  horseback  riding 
down  into  the  valley  through  the  air! 
Straight  upright  sat  the  rider,  in 
military  fashion,  with  a  firm  seat  in 

42 


the  saddle,  a  strong  clutch  upon  the 
rein  to  hold  his  charger  from  too  im- 
petuous a  plunge.  From  his  bare 
head  his  long  hair  streamed  upward, 
waving  like  a  plume.  His  hands  were 
concealed  in  the  cloud  of  the  horse's 
lifted  mane.  The  animal's  body  was 
as  level  as  if  every  hoof-stroke  en- 
countered the  resistant  earth.  Its 
motions  were  those  of  a  wild  gallop, 
but  even  as  the  officer  looked  they 
ceased,  with  all  the  legs  thrown 
sharply  forward  as  in  the  act  of 
alighting  from  a  leap.  But  this  was 
a  flight! 

Filled  with  amazement  and  terror 
by  this  apparition  of  a  horseman  in 
the  sky — half  believing  himself  the 
chosen  scribe  of  some  new  apoca- 
lypse, the  officer  was  overcome  by 

43 


the  intensity  of  his  emotions;  his 
legs  failed  him  and  he  fell.  Almost 
at  the  same  instant  he  heard  a  crash- 
ing sound  in  the  trees — a  sound  that 
died  without  an  echo — and  all  was 
still. 

The  officer  rose  to  his  feet,  trem- 
bling. The  familiar  sensation  of  an 
abraded  shin  recalled  his  dazed  facul- 
ties. Pulling  himself  together,  he 
ran  obliquely  away  from  the  cliff  to 
a  point  distant  from  its  foot;  there- 
about he  expected  to  find  his  man; 
and  thereabout  he  naturally  failed. 
In  the  fleeting  instant  of  his  vision 
his  imagination  had  been  so  wrought 
upon  by  the  apparent  grace  and  ease 
and  intention  of  the  marvelous  per- 
formance that  it  did  not  occur  to  him 
that   the   line    of  march   of  aerial 

44 


cavalry  is  directly  downward,  and 
that  he  could  find  the  objects  of  his 
search  at  the  very  foot  of  the  cliff. 
A  half-hour  later  he  returned  to 
camp. 

This  officer  was  a  wise  man;  he 
knew  better  than  to  tell  an  incredi- 
ble truth.  He  said  nothing  of  what 
he  had  seen.  But  when  the  com- 
mander asked  him  if  in  his  scout  he 
had  learned  anything  of  advantage 
to  the  expedition,  he  answered: 

"  Yes,  sir;  there  is  no  road  leading 
down  into  this  valley  from  the  south- 
ward." 

The  commander,  knowing  better, 
smiled. 

After  firing  his  shot,  Private  Car- 
ter Druse  reloaded  his  rifle  and  re- 
sumed his  watch.    Ten  minutes  had 

45 


hardly  passed  when  a  Federal  ser- 
geant crept  cautiously  to  him  on 
hands  and  knees.  Druse  neither 
turned  his  head  nor  looked  at  him, 
but  lay  without  motion  or  sign  of 
recognition. 

"Did  you  fire?"  the  sergeant 
whispered. 

"Yes." 

"At  what?" 

"A  horse.  It  was  standing  on 
yonder  rock — pretty  far  out.  You 
see  it  is  no  longer  there.  It  went 
over  the  cliff! 

The  man's  face  was  white,  but  he 
showed  no  other  sign  of  emotion. 
Having  answered,  he  turned  away 
his  eyes  and  said  no  more.  The  ser- 
geant did  not  understand. 

"See  here,  Druse,"  he  said,  after 

46 


a  moment's  silence,  "it's  no  use 
making  a  mystery.  I  order  you  to 
report.  Was  there  anybody  on  the 
horse  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Well?" 

"My  father." 

The  sergeant  rose  to  his  feet  and 
walked  away.  "Good  God!'  he 
said. 


47 


Here  Ends  N9  Four  of  the  Western  Classics 
Containing  A  Son  of  the  Gods  and  A  Horseman 
in  the  Sky  by  Ambrose  Bierce  with  an  Intro- 
duction by  W.  C.  Morrow  and  a  Photogravure 
Frontispiece  after  a  Painting  by  Will  Jenklns 
Of  This  First  Edition  One  Thousand  Copies 
Have  Been  Issued  Printed  on  Fabriano  Hand- 
made Paper  the  Typography  Designed  by  J.  H. 
Nash  Published  by  Paul  Elder  and  Company 
and  Done  into  a  Book  for  Them  at  the  Tomoye 
Press  in  the  City  of  New  York  M  C  M  V 1 1 


btll 


